


Memory is a Fickle Thing

by turnfolio



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6231601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnfolio/pseuds/turnfolio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years is an awfully long time to spend in a prison.  </p>
<p>Cassandra doesn't trust her memories anymore, as long and recent pasts tangle together in her head.  Who is Cassandra Johanna Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, and what does she remember?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory is a Fickle Thing

It seemed notably cruel that the strongest remaining memories of her mother were not of happy times, but instead a litany of short-comings. Try as she might, Cassandra’s strongest recollections of her mother’s voice- sharp and direct- always seemed to sprout up during Council meetings. 

The picture of perfect posture, she’d had to restrain herself from fleeing from the room whilst the Council reviewed plans for the reconstruction. Each fidget was accompanied by a particularly notable scolding until finally she broke and excused herself for a moment of fresh air. 

She pointedly ignored the shared looks of pity between the men as she stepped from the room. 

Cassandra could only recall fragments of her father. She couldn’t find it in her to feel angry; the Lord of Whitestone seemed to make appearances like a sunny rain. She could imagine his light smile, and his tendency to ruffle her hair. One evening she sat herself at the family chess board until a strong clap of thunder sent her fleeing from the room in tears. 

After that day, she closed off her father’s study. She’d had her fill of specters, and would tackle that room after the harvest season. Or once the forest was cleared of dangerous beasts. Or potentially once the graveyards were restored. Regardless, she’d get to it eventually. 

\--

Despite all logical lines of thinking, the Lady Delilah Briarwood’s favorite color was an enthusiastic purple hue. The woman seemed to determined to coax brightness from the very walls of the castle Whitestone, her light skirts dancing along the stone floors as she would flit from floor to floor. 

Cassandra distinctly remembers encountering the Lady during one of these moods, one spring morning roughly one year after she had last seen the shadows of her brother’s form disappear into the forests. It was early, and the sun was just beginning it’s weary venture through the cool mists that seemed to emanate from the ground below. The mornings were usually quiet in the castle, barring any guests, and Cassandra liked to watch the city rise. 

She reaches her favorite vantage point, only to find it occupied by the woman who had personally murdered the majority of her family. Delilah Briarwood was not a meek woman- she was tall, with broader shoulders and an ivory complexion. Her hair was released from the severe twist she typically kept it in, and in its stead long brambles of dark hair fell across her back and shoulders. Delilah was sitting at the windowsill, hands moving along the hem of her powder blue gown while her eyes scanned the countryside. 

Cassandra pressed herself into the shadows, drawing comfort from their folds as she hid. Cursing her bad luck, she began to slink back down the halls to her rooms. 

“Did I intrude on your morning activities?” 

Cassandra started, silently berating herself for her carelessness. Despite her continued best efforts, there seemed to be no escaping the Lady’s attention. Drawing on her courage, Cassandra stepped from the shadows and straightened her posture. 

“It’s quite alright,” she brought her eyes to meet Delilah’s, noting the dark circles. 

“It’s unusual to run into anyone at this hour,” she began slowly, lightening her tone to make sure to remove any accusation from her voice, “So I often find myself here. It’s a good place to sort through your thoughts.” 

Delilah nodded, bringing her gaze back out to the window. She was seemingly drawn to the Sun Tree, which wasn’t particularly exciting in Cassandra’s opinion. Once you adjusted to the awe of its size and stature, it was just a tree. 

“It is indeed be a place to help gather ones thoughts,” Delilah spoke quietly. She took another moment before sharply rising and turning away from the window. 

Cassandra flinched, unable to hide a slow burn of shame as she watched Delilah’s slightly raised brow at her movement. 

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” 

Delilah moved past her, the woman’s taller form easily towering over Cassandra’s slight frame as she retreated down the hall and out of sight. Cassandra felt the remainder of her breath escape her, and she lifted a hand to lightly brush an errant curl from her face. Glaring at the traitorous shake, she huffed and marched to reclaim her spot. 

From her vantage point, the people of Whitestone were now trickling from their homes and getting on with their days. Despite the events of the past years, these people still had seed to sow, children to watch over, a life to lead. Cassandra gripped the sill tightly, head dropping to indulgence in a moment of self-pity. She noticed a small teacup and saucer on the ledge. 

The teacup was a delicate vessel, lavender with small golden designs painted along the sides. It’s contents were almost completely untouched, but the tea was absolutely stone cold. 

\--

When she sat down to think on it, it was almost funny to try to sort out her different recollections of her siblings. As a child, she would insist on instructing guests of the many differences between herself and each of the previous de Rolo heirs. Perhaps it was a self-reassurance that the youngest daughter wasn’t forgotten in a sea of similar bone structure. 

Was it Oliver who would tease her by putting sand in her inkwell? That would have made sense, but sometimes she would have the same thoughts about Julius when she found her thoughts wandering. There wasn’t much company in Whitestone, and notably less who could help her recall whether it was Julius who had a penchant for wearing his jackets just a hair too short. Cassandra was fairly certain it had something to do with one less obstacle when he would play the piano. Or maybe it was to keep him from fiddling while speaking with Father and his staff. 

Ironically, Cassandra could easily recall the distinct differences between Vesper and her shadow, Whitney. Despite Whitney’s best efforts to perfectly imitate the eldest sister’s poise, Cassandra knew that the eldest could not stand any type of insect, whereas Whitney was just flighty enough to not notice when a few ants would end up in her vanity set. One of them had a lovely soprano, light and airy. Cassandra could remember curling up by the fire while one of her sisters would accompany one of her brothers in a bit of light fanfare during a particularly chilly night. 

During particularly dull evenings, Cassandra found herself sketching profiles of Ludwig. Perhaps it was his nose that sparked her curiosity, the angles just crooked enough to suggest that it wasn’t entirely his fault. She could recall his dark eyes and refusal to skip a weekly hair trim. He must have been involved in her adventures through the manor, wouldn’t he? 

\--

Once she knew to look for them, Cassandra was able to pick out the delicately designed teacups in particularly every room. They were predominantly lavender in color, occasionally a deeper violet. The designs were typically painted in golden scripts, and they were almost always full of ice cold tea. Cassandra would watch the Lady Delilah flit from room to room, her commanding presence seeming to fill whatever quarters she happened to find herself. She would have some quantity of books on her person, oftentimes a number of pieces of parchment, and a quill or two jammed behind her ear. 

One evening Cassandra was distracted from her letters by a loud voice as it moved through the sitting room quarters. She hid away her things just as Delilah burst into the room, a fist full of papers and a rather dusty text tucked under her arm. 

“I swear you’re being intentionally thick-headed tonight, darling!” She snarled to the large man that trailed behind her. Sylas Briarwood laughed, a deep and unnerving laugh that seemed to echo throughout the quiet castle. 

“This could be exactly what we needed! Why not just send someone over to at least speak with the man before dismissing it outright?” Delilah huffed, continuing her rampage through the sitting room area.

Sylas did not respond, seeming content to just follow in his wife’s wake rather than confronting her anger head on. Cassandra tried her damnedest to blend into the sitting chair she had taken up, feeling the slight pressure as she pressed against a solid inkwell hidden behind her back in her hurry. 

“If you’re going to just stand there Sylas, you may as well make yourself useful and find where I’m left my tea!” 

Cassandra looked up on the mantle, where she had spied one of the royal purple teacups upon retiring to the room a number of hours ago. Uneasily, she turned and found herself making eye contact with the Lord Sylas Briarwood. He looked around her and spotted the teacup, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh come now my love, I’m sure it would just be easier to call someone to fetch you a new cup.” Sylas’ deep baritone cut through his wife’s increasingly sharp and irritated rantings as she began to continue her pacing into the next room. 

He sauntered over to the mantle and lifted the tiny teacup. Cassandra did not speak, watching the incredibly large man gently handle the delicate porcelain with an interested eye. Sylas dipped a finger into the cup’s contents, laughed, and tossed the contents of the once-full teacup into the hearth’s roaring fire. Cassandra started at the hiss the tea made upon hitting the coals of the fire, and turned to look at the door Delilah had just stormed away through. The Lord caught her glance, and set out to follow his Lady once more. Cassandra watched him pocket the cup into his cloak, wink at her, and disappear into the next room. 

\--

It was a new day in Whitestone, Cassandra thought to herself as the sun rose over the city. The survivors of Emon had been settled into their homes, whilst the wounded were being tended to in the main hall and infirmary. She had personally helped settle the members of Vox Machina into rooms within the castle. After what they had endured, she couldn’t imagine seeing any of them until potentially late afternoon. She made a mental note to look for whatever rations had been stored up for when they awoke. Life at Whitestone was certainly better, but it had been a difficult winter and additional mouths to feed would certainly take their toll on the remaining grain stores. 

Regardless, no one would be up for at least a few more hours, so Cassandra found her feet tracing familiar steps back to her favorite vantage point. She watched the light pierce through the weak morning clouds, and the Sun Tree stood tall, catching the warmth that greeted it like an old friend.

Cassandra’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft cough at her back. She spun around, her heart in her throat and hand at her belt to meet a haggard looking young man with errant tufts of white hair meekly watching her from a safe distance. She lowered her hand and took a deep breath, slouching back into the windowsill. 

“I didn’t think any of you would be up for a good while,” she muttered. 

“Sound reasoning, but I’m afraid it would only apply to those of us who were able to find sleep,” her brother quipped. 

Cassandra felt the corners of her mouth raise, but couldn’t bring herself to find a witty response. Her adrenaline was spent, and without their sharp barbs and witticisms, the last remaining members of the de Rolo family fell into a heavy silence. 

“I’m glad-” Percival started with an awkward fluster, “It’s good to-” he tried again, breaking off in frustration. 

“Welcome home, brother.” Cassandra leveled, throwing out the sliver of an olive branch. Percival nodded in gratitude, pursing his lips in concentrated thought. The quiet that stretched between them lost a bit of its edge, as each sibling sorted through a thousand different thoughts, questions, accusations, and fears. 

She studied her brother’s profile while he lost himself in his musings. Above all things, Cassandra thanked the stars that Percival’s hair was now shockingly white. It was stark enough to shake her from memories; proof that he was here with her now and not a cruel projection of her imagination. It seemed to suit this new version of him, startling enough to draw notice once he lightly cleared his throat, fading into the shadowy greyscale when he preferred to listen quietly. 

“Your hair looks ridiculous, you know.” 

His hands instinctively rose to tug at the strands, his brow furrowed defensively. Cassandra thought she may have seen the ghost of a smile as well. 

“I can also tell that you have no bloody idea what you’re doing right now,” she decided to cut to the chase. 

Percival’s face fell, his despair so tangible that Cassandra felt her own chest tighten. 

“Not no clue, actually.” Percival supplied quietly. 

He walked over to the windowsill, sitting down on the floor and leaning against the window ledge that Cassandra was curled up on. 

“Although I was hoping that it looked a little less obvious,” he added in. 

Cassandra chuckled, the weight in her chest lifting slightly. 

“It’s quite possibly a family trait in that regard,” she started, watching her brother mutter an affirmation and lean his head back against the stone. 

“Dare I inquire after the affairs of Whitestone and the Council?” 

She tried not to flinch, she truly did, but regardless she found herself letting lose a truly unladylike sigh and groan. 

“Truce?” she offered up after a moment, “it’s too early for such dismal and frustrating conversation.” 

Percival seemed to pick up on the desperate tone to her voice, and assented, 

“That seems fair.” 

Cassandra shifted and dropped her hand down to affectionately rustle her brother’s hair. Percival made a contented grunt and didn’t pull away. 

They sat there for a time, Cassandra tracing letters and symbols with her nails along Percival’s scalp, enjoying the soft texture to his thick snowy hair. 

“I’m glad you finally got rid of that terrible facial hair brother,” Cassandra couldn’t help herself with another quip, “I mean honestly, the do Rolo family does have a reputation to uphold after all. You looked like a ruffian.” 

He was quiet and didn’t respond for a moment, which confused Cassandra to the point of lifting her hand from Percival’s hair. 

“I do suppose it was a bit unkept,” Percival admitted quietly, and Cassandra waited for him to continue, “But it did remind me of Father from time to time.” 

She sucked in a long breath, and carefully let it out slowly, gathering her thoughts and trying to prepare herself. She turned away from her brother and stared out the window, watching the townspeople flit about in the streets. 

“Sometimes I have trouble remembering much of Father.” 

Percival jumped at that, blinking open his eyes owlishly while processing his sister’s confession. Cassandra avoided his gaze, twisting her fingers anxiously. 

“There are-” she murmured “-there are bits and pieces. It's not just Father, but- It’s been so long and I...” 

She glanced down, but Percival was silent, letting her speak her piece. She took a steadying breath, and turned to watch her brother while she spoke. 

Carefully watching his face for a reaction, she tried to vocalize her thoughts. 

“Five years is a very long time Percival... and I... I didn’t have as much time as you or the others...” she trailed off, but her brother’s face had softened, and she continued. 

“I often worry that I’ve mixed things up, or created false stories to make myself feel better. I wasn’t the most agreeable child-” Cassandra swats at Percival with a glare as he snorts in response. 

“-and it was very taxing to be the youngest of seven, Percival. Not all of us were content to lock ourselves in our studies and the library,” 

“Regardless,” she straightened up “these walls don’t hold the same memories for me as they may for you.” 

Percival tenses here, but makes no argument. Cassandra loses her nerve, and falls silent. The former tension has crept back into the room, and she finds herself angrily blinking back hot tears. 

“Budge over, would you?” Percival’s quiet voice startles her from her tears. 

Obediently, she moves over to allow her brother to sit beside her at the window ledge. a large enough space, Cassandra’s always enjoyed being able to fit herself entirely within the space, surrounded by the very stone that lent her lands their name. 

It is not, however, an extraordinarily expansive space. The two siblings are a tight fit, and Cassandra slots her head onto her brother’s shoulder, purely due to the constraints of space, and Percival picks up her right hand, turning it over in his. 

Together they look at her hands, which are not particularly notable in Cassandra’s opinion. She notes the slight tremor to her brother’s hand, but says nothing while she continues to lean into him. 

“Vesper would have been very envious of these, you know.” 

Percival indicates to the minimal jewelry she’s permitted herself to wear. She prided herself on the practicality, as baubles and overtly large pieces would not serve her well in her day to day. The slim bands are woven together around her fingers, bands of dark obsidian and bright silver. 

“Not to speak unkindly, but I’d be remiss to not mention that our eldest sister was devastatingly vain at times.” 

Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, but nothing followed. Percival looked out, not quite meeting her gaze. She noticed the small smile on his face, and he squeezed her hand lightly before continuing. 

“There was also that time you broke Ludwig’s nose... and somehow or another convinced our mother that it wasn’t your fault, you deceitful little thing, but that Ludwig had brought it upon himself for not displaying proper manners to a lady and knocking to announce his arrival at her bedchamber.” 

He broke off there, chuckling quietly to himself and shaking his head. They sat together for another moment, the sister curled up beside her brother, whilst he pretended to not notice the dark water marks that grew across his shoulder. 

The moment ended abruptly as a lean figure appeared down the hallway. Her long hair was loose and wild as she peered down the hall. 

“Percy?” 

Cassandra jumped up, furiously scrubbing at her eyes to remove any traces of moisture while her brother stood to regard the lithe half elf that had come to find him. Cassandra turned away at this point, preferring to let her brother speak to the druid while she composed herself. She heard phrases like “Emon” and “Gilmore” before their mutterings died down. 

Keyleth dipped her head lightly, her cheeks reddening as Cassandra stepped to her brother’s side. 

“I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to... I just needed to- Were you talking? Did I interrupt? I can go... yeah, I should definitely go.” the druid fumbled, her hands wildly gesticulating as if she could snatch her thoughts physically out of the air and press them together into a singular sentiment. Percival smiled softly at the druid’s bumbling, and patted her shoulder with a quiet reassurance. 

“It’s all right Keyleth. We’ll meet you downstairs for a light breakfast before we leave.” 

Nodding almost frantically, the druid hesitantly met Cassandra’s eyes before practically scampering down the hall. 

“The woman is essentially royalty amongst her people. Forgive her, but she does mean nothing but the best,” he bumped her shoulder affectionately. 

“We’ll continue this later, Cas. I promise.” 

At that, Percival began to make his way down the hall along the same path the fluttery druid had taken. Cassandra rolled her eyes, at once entertained and exasperated by the company her brother kept. 

She followed after her brother, her hand brushing against the stonework as she made her way down to the breakfast hall. 

**Author's Note:**

> A little over-indulgent character piece. I had to dust off actual cobwebs to write this down, but it just kept popping up and insisting to be written, and I have such a soft spot for tragic characters.


End file.
